


A Pain That I'm Used To

by flowersforgraves



Series: BTHB [19]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Knives, Military Training, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: Agent Florida's pain tolerance and accuracy with blade throwing are hard-won.





	A Pain That I'm Used To

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from tumblr user stagesoframpancy: stabbing and florida
> 
> (card [here](https://flowersforgraves.tumblr.com/post/177921515881/); current list of claimed and filled prompts [here](https://flowersforgraves.tumblr.com/post/184162961386/))

There’s a knife in his hand.

To be more accurate, there is a knife in each of his hands. 

His left hand is clenched in a death grip around the hilt of a dagger, heavy and solid with a wrapped handle that would fit his palm perfectly if he could only move his hand to adjust. It’s not balanced for throwing, he notes vaguely, and some coherent part of him tucked away in the back of his mind checks off yet another time he’s made that observation. How long has he been holding the knife? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

His right hand, however, is pinned to the table. His palm is flat on the metal, slick and warm and wet from the blood. It had been cool when he’d put his hand down, he remembers, and then the searing pain of having a knife stabbed through the back of his hand and into the table had overwhelmed everything else. He doesn’t remember what his hand felt like before the knife had slid neatly between his tendons. It won’t do to permanently disable a crack agent during his training.

He keeps his right hand as still as possible. Even the slightest movement sends a fresh wave of agony up his arm. His vision fuzzes out at the edges, nausea rising up in his throat, but he grits his teeth, and throws the knife in his left hand toward the wall. He watches it flip end over end as if in slow motion, but even as it leaves his hand he knows it won’t stick.

The blade clatters to the ground. 

“It’s not balanced for throwing,” he tries to say, but it’s all a jumbled slurred mess, and he’s not even sure he manages to make a coherent sound at all before there is a gloved hand clamped around his pinned right wrist. The knife is yanked out of the table -- and out of his hand -- with terrifying speed and strength, but the pain makes his vision go white, and if his chest wasn’t locked up so tight in useless spasming he might have screamed.

“Agent Florida.” The voice is pleasant, and he’s come to hate that accent with as much passion as he can muster.

He lifts his head as much as he can, trying to make his eyes focus on the man in front of him.

“I assume you can hear me,” the man continues. “I also assume you know that you have failed in your task. And since we did make it very clear what will happen should you fail, it will come as no surprise to you that you will be delivered to the medical bay in about ten minutes. I expect you won’t be failing this task again.”

He lets out a long, low groan, and moves his left arm -- slowly, leaden, so full of exhaustion he almost passes out -- over to put pressure on his right hand. No, he won’t be failing this task again. Next time he’ll stick the knife in the wall. Next time he won’t get distracted. Next time, he will be doing the stabbing, instead of being stabbed.


End file.
